Ambition is such an awkward thing to admit to, isn’t it? It feels a bit gauche. Like wearing heels to a picnic or bringing a PowerPoint to therapy. And yet, here it is, that low, persistent thrum beneath the surface of even my quietest days. The dream that doesn’t go away.
I used to think ambition had to look a certain way. Sharp elbows. Shiny resumes. Business cards that practically glowed in the dark. But my ambition was never like that. Mine was private. Polite. The kind that smiled during meetings and stayed up late reworking the proposal anyway. The kind that doesn’t announce itself but desperately wants to be seen.
And then there were the years I tried to let it go. Tried to Marie Kondo my desire for more. I told myself I had enough. That it was greedy or childish to want more at this stage of life. I lit candles. I practiced gratitude. I read essays about being content. I meant it, mostly.
But ambition, when it’s real, doesn’t pack up so easily. It doesn’t dissolve just because your life looks good on paper. It hangs around. Like an old friend you don’t talk to anymore, but who still sends the occasional text: "Hey. Remember me?"
Sometimes I envy people who are content. Who clock in and clock out, who don’t lie awake wondering if they’re living up to their potential. But if I’m honest, I also don’t believe them. Because how could you not want to make something that matters? To be a little bit great at something? To be so good they can’t ignore you?
My ambition isn’t about yachts or legacy or having a building named after me. It’s about becoming the person I thought I could be when I was ten years old, sitting cross-legged on my bed with a notebook, believing I was meant for something extraordinary. That version of me still shows up sometimes, expectant. Impatient. Asking why I’m wasting time.
And I don’t have a perfect answer. I just know I’m not done yet.
Ambition, for me, isn’t a ladder. It’s a compass. It points toward the things that light me up. Writing something that actually says what I mean. Building something that helps someone else. Working with people who make me sharper, better, more awake. It’s not a race. It’s a return.
And still, ambition is a strange companion. It keeps you up at night, not with fear, but with possibility. It dares you to imagine things bigger than your schedule, your mortgage, your very adult limitations. It doesn’t care if you’re tired. It just asks if you’re ready yet.
There was a time, a long time, when I tried to ignore it for the sake of peace. I was married to someone who treated my ambition like a character flaw. Like a room I wasn’t supposed to go into. He never said it outright, but the message was clear: my drive made him uncomfortable. My hunger for more felt like a threat. I learned to tuck it in, fold it small. To be easier to be around. To apologize for wanting things he didn’t understand. I got very good at making myself smaller.
But even then, it never went away. I would sneak moments of it, writing late at night, dreaming up ideas I never said out loud. I was trying to build a life while also trying not to rock the one I had. It’s a delicate, exhausting trick: building while tiptoeing. Eventually, I stopped tiptoeing.
I’ve learned to stop treating ambition like a flaw. Like something I should have grown out of by now. I’ve watched it morph over the years, from wanting gold stars to wanting impact, from craving recognition to craving resonance. It’s quieter now, but more insistent. Less concerned with applause, more drawn to alignment.
Sometimes I wish I could tuck it away. Be satisfied. Be soft. Be still. But then I remember, ambition isn’t the enemy of peace. It’s the architect of a meaningful life. The gentle (and sometimes not-so-gentle) push toward what matters.
And what matters, really, is that I try. That I keep listening to that inner pull, even when it whispers inconvenient things. That I keep going, even when the finish line keeps moving. That I give myself permission to want more, not because I’m not grateful, but because I am.
So I’m learning not to be embarrassed by it. Not to whisper the dream like it’s a confession. I’m letting it speak a little louder these days. Because what if ambition isn’t the enemy of peace? What if it’s the thing that keeps calling us back to the most alive version of ourselves?
And what if, despite the setbacks, the stumbles, the very adult urge to just give up and make sourdough, what if we listened?